


And The World Stops Spinning

by amelioratedays



Category: Hey! Say! JUMP, Johnny's Entertainment
Genre: Idol Verse, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amelioratedays/pseuds/amelioratedays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A take on Ryutaro’s life after he leaves, in which it doesn’t hit him, not until it’s a bit too late. But he’s coping with it and slowly learns to come back on his own life. And Yamada is there for him; from beginning to the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lattetears](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lattetears).



> Yeah, I don't know what I'm writing either. (Anyways, this was requested by lattetears and, I'm not even sure if she likes it. ;A;)

It doesn’t hit him as hard as it should—probably because it actually doesn’t hit him at all—but still, he doesn’t believe it. There’s no pain chewing away at his heart nor is there a bottomless pit forming in his stomach. Ryutaro thinks vaguely that maybe he should be caring a lot more of this gigantic career fuck-up that just occurred in his life but he doesn’t; it doesn’t process itself. He waits—still nothing. Nothing at all, except the whistling of birds outside the large window panes and the gentle humming of the electronic devices of the household. He winced, as the refrigerator whispered to the cupboard, “Poor child, I don’t get how he can be so calm.”  
  
He doesn’t quite get it either as he opens the fridge—after a surprisingly calm night of long-missed sleep—and pulls out a bottle of melon soda. It weird and Ryutaro can’t exactly seem to put a grasp on it but he doesn’t dwell on it as he uncaps the bottle and sits back on the couch, hand searching for the remote. The television turns open with a high pitched buzz and he surfs through the channels. The same channels where he was once featured on when he was in a group of sparkling Jyanizus who sang knowingly in horrid costumes and broken english amidst screaming fangirls. There’s a vague feeling of emptiness stirring in his chest, but Ryutaro doesn’t ponder upon it long enough for it to stay. He shuts the television off; the only things broadcasting at this time were bound to be news anyways. And with that, he takes another chug of the sugary acid before heading back upstairs. High fructose corn syrup rotting away his enamels; vague loneliness chewing away at his soul.  
  
It’s ironic, he thinks, that while everyone else was wallowing around in some worrisome and depressed state that should have been his, he’s simply sitting here in his bed. Head reclined on his pillow with a bottle of melon soda in hand, headphones blasting some Johnny’s Ultra Music Power as he pretends that his phone hasn’t been ringing for the past six hours. Nonstop noise resounding in the now empty house because Shintaro is still in the jimusho being everything he isn’t, while the parents of the Morimoto family had jobs to be at. Ryutaro feels so helplessly useless, guilt-stricken and acousticophobic when he finally grabbed onto his phone for the first time that day. The ringing stopped and Ryutaro feels a bit of himself die on the inside; nothing big though, just a small tiny speck of dust disintegrating into thin air.  
  
He’s lost between flurries of Yabu’s “I’m worried about you.”, Takaki’s “I can’t believe you just did something so stupid.”, Yamada’s simple “Are you alright?”, and a mixture of text messages and voice mails that he’s too tired to check. So he simply deletes everything and pulls out the battery before proceeding to disconnect the cable chord on his home phone. The house suddenly quiets down, and his ears are free of acouasm. It’s silent—no more fangirls screaming, Takaki yelling, Yabu nagging, Yamada whining, and no more staff ushering them—it’s dead silent and Ryutaro thinks that life has never been more deafening.  
  
It still doesn’t hit him, but reality sinks in a week later when he wakes up and suddenly realized that everything is out of wack and he really needed to get his shit together. Because he’s the only one whose schedule has been broken, trashed and completely destroyed while as everyone else was finally starting to return to their normal lives. Except he doesn’t break; reality still stuck in a lump at his throat. The sun still rises, Shintaro still has junior activities, Morimoto mama and papa still have jobs to work, and Ryutaro still has a life to live. The calls come less and less with the amount of filming and recording, and he safely reconnects the cable chord and reboots his phone.  
  
[Two Unread Messages]  
  
The first thing he does is quit Horikoshi; it’s useless being in that school anymore when you weren’t anything better than the status of a commoner. It’s a waste though, four months of the school and he decides to leave. He pretends not to see Yamada and Chinen as he leaves the office; pretends not to hear as he stuffs his headphones into his ears. And as he stumbles past the school gate, all he hears in his ears are bass beats and “Thank You” said in one language too many. The sun is shining, sky an azure blue, and it still hasn’t hit him yet.  
  
Yet.  
  


***

  
Ryutaro was never one to be atychiphobic, so he knows that there has to be a way to stand back up on his own two feet. A way to walk in another direction, away from blinding stage lights and large concert venues. He ends up finding work in a run down antique store, where no one cares to walk into and there’s no one pointing fingers and whispering harsh words that run along the lines of “kid, singer, scandal, and smoke.” It wasn’t even as if he needed the job, even without his income, Shintaro made enough to hold up his part and without school tuitions to pay, life was easier at home. But Ryutaro wanted this job, it was a recluse, as he sits in the back of the store surrounded by the countless items too old and faded to attract teenagers his age. It was calming and secure, it gave him a cycle, a new schedule to replace his old one. Life was starting to have a pattern again; wake up, work, work, work, work, and sleep. It was vital to Ryutaro, because it was the only line of defence he had to prevent the fact from ever catching up with him. And as long as he never had the time to think about it, it didn’t.  
  
It was raining today, and Ryutaro deemed it quite fitting to the mood of the store; dull. The only light source in the store being lamps placed obscurely around the shop; everything encased in dust. It was as if he was in another era, the only thing close to modern times in this shop being the cell phone he carried habitually in his left pocket. But it wasn’t needed, the calls stopped coming—except for Yamada who was too dense to realize that Ryutaro has never replied back to any calls or messages—and Ryutaro had no need nor desire to communicate with others. The store owner had laughed, calling him a begrumpled young man who was too antisocial for his age. Ryutaro laughed back, and he thinks he agrees.  
  
It’s been exactly nine months of the daily schedule of nothing but work, work, work, trashy bentos and more work. He’s too accustomed to this, he thinks as he spends another day at work doing absolutely nothing but talking to the items of the store for eleven hours. “I need a life.” He said dully, and the lamp flickered in response. “You do.” The clock rebutted, “But you have no use outside of this shop anyways.” Ryutaro scowled and the shelf only shrugged, “This shop is part of your life too, you know?” The scowl deepened, “You all suck.”  
  
The lamp smirked, “You do too.”  
  
The sky was crying and the clouds were grey, reality was slowly catching up to Ryutaro.  
  


***

  
The only thing that passes through his mind this particular morning was nothing but “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” and possibly some more fuckity-fuck on top of that. The shop was closed for a month because the old man was going back to the country side. He’s now income-less for the month and it doesn’t make it any better when Shintaro tells him it’s okay, and that they weren’t struggling with finances in the first place. Shintaro, who’s suddenly become mature and thoughtful instead of the small and playful little brother he always was. Fuck, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like that at all. Shintaro wasn’t supposed to change.  
  
The door closed with a click and Ryutaro fell back onto his bed; migraine spreading through his frontal lobe. The wall sneered, “You’re completely useless. Your little brother is more useful to the family than you are.” He swallowed back an insult and proceeded to rip the wall bare of its posters and dumping it all into the garbage can. He smiled, “And now you’re naked.” The wall glared, staring at Ryutaro until his eyes hurt and migraine spread.  
  
The sharp ringing of his phone didn’t help to ease the pain either and he blindly felt for the device amidst his bed. He didn’t even have to see who it was to know that it was from Yamada. He was the only one that still attempts to contact him—everyday without fail even—completely oblivious to the fact that Ryutaro never ever responds. But he doesn’t give up and Ryutaro’s never been so apologetic, aggravated and pathetic at the same time. He scrolls and clicked on the new message. Yamada’s been to a new restaurant, slept and hour earlier than usual, tried a new dish. They’re all completely meaningless texts and Ryutaro pretends that he has absolutely nothing wrong with him as he saves them to the folder of texts that he doesn’t know how to reply to. Yamada has never asked him once about the incident and on the inside, Ryutaro breaks a little bit more.

  
***

  
There is absolutely nothing to do, and he thinks. He foolishly lets down his guard and allows himself to ponder over everything that happened these past months and it finally hits him—hard—even though he’s been expecting it all along, but it catches him by surprise and he finds himself thrown in the wallowing puddle of self-pity that he’s been avoiding all this time. He finds himself accepting what he’s never wanted to believe in. Night falls to some ungodly hour and the streets are barren. He’s breaking for the first time and nothing makes sense anymore. The ripped posters sit in his trash can, Ryutaro’s face is torn in two.  
  
The delayed acceptance makes everything so much worse, because he’s guilt-ridden and the parasite that chews away at his heart completely devours it. His natural defence of pure will power has been completely shattered, ammo all used up and he can’t keep up the facade any longer. Unless he’s dreaming, hit his head during filming and fell into a comatose state. That would explain everything and how long this dream had been going on. He takes the paper cutter off the top of his desk and presses into his arm, crimson plasma overflowing onto the wooden floor, but there’s no pain. Nothing but numbness, he smiled; it’s a dream. The curtains shake their heads in disapproval and the wind whispers to him, “It’s real, child.”  
  
They lie.  
Everyone lies.  
Everyone but Yamada, he thinks as he scrambles down the stairs.  
  
The wind blows again, and the wind chimes twinkle; denial.


	2. ii.

The wind continues to blow as his legs bring him further and further by their own will. There’s pain in his knees, pressure on his lungs and he’s puzzled. Why is there pain within his dream? But before the thought finishes processing, the pain fades into the same numbness that inhabits the wound on his arm. Wind wraps around him and Ryutaro can’t breathe, lungs short of invisible air, and eyes blurred with dream tears. He’s falling and breaking but it no longer matters because the door finally opens and all he sees is Yamada Ryosuke, complete and whole. Yamada’s who is all understanding and smiling even though it’s 3:45 in the morning; patient and forgiving as he pulls Ryutaro into his embrace; warm and comforting like lazy summer mornings and sun-kissed smiles. And through tear-blurred eyes, Ryutaro looks at Yamada—Yamada who looks too surreal and living in this world of dreams—and whispers, his voice cracking. “Yamada, tell me I’m dreaming.”  
  
Ryosuke’s smile falters and the world stops spinning.  
  
It stops, frozen in place, broken bits held together by gravity. Drip, drop. Vermillion crystals staining Ryosuke’s hand as he stares into Ryutaro’s face, drained of life and simply a pale mask. The gears are stuck and un-oiled as they sit side by side, the metal chains of the swings creak in the distance and Ryutaro flinches. Gravel on the floor staring at him in curiosity as he stares back. It’s 4 o’clock in the morning and the sun doesn’t rise, Yamada doesn’t question and Ryutaro simply lets him bandage up the wound that doesn’t hurt. He’s cleaning up blood that doesn’t flow, patching up skin that doesn’t protect.  
  
Yamada feels bad for him, he knows it, when the said boy suddenly sprouts words of “It’s pretty nice out here today.”, “Maybe I should take a vacation soon.”, and “Work isn’t all that great.” The world stopped spinning and Ryutaro suddenly hopes that it will implode. But it doesn’t and simply stays locked in place. Time being the only thing that selfishly moves on. It’s unfair and seeps into the crevices of his heart, forcing out blood through paper thin cuts. Haemophilic platelets refusing to patch up the wounds, plasma turning the cuts into never-ending wells.  
  
The sun peeks shyly through silk woven clouds and Ryutaro stands. Ryosuke looks at him questioningly, a somewhat puzzled look on his face. “I should leave now.” Yamada whispers a small “oh”, and Ryutaro finds his legs turning and running off to another direction before his heart takes it time to break into a million pieces. There’s pain in his knees and pressure in his lungs.  
  
Yamada is bright platinum gold while he was lacklustre steel. Wilting leaves to a blossoming flower. It hurts. Oh, it hurts so utter much as he stares into those brown soulful eyes, lips upturned to that tacky grin he uses in the waiting room, face boasting the same milky complexion as it did five years ago. The comforting presence turning into such a guilt-ridden and malicious monster, claws shredding away his heart, tongue lashing at his soul. Yamada Ryosuke was radiating perfection more than ever and Ryutaro’s never felt more worthless.  
  
Fuck Yamada and his isangelous personality, and fuck himself and his pathetic existence. Somewhere along the long unwinding road, the flowers wilt and the leaves bloom, Ryosuke cries and Ryutaro screams.  
  
The sun’s already up by the time he’s back near his house, morning light illuminating the streets as cars pull out of driveways and kids make their way to school. But all Ryutaro sees are clouds and rainstorms, invisible precipitation following him overhead. Heavy non-raindrops darkening the grey concrete sidewalk. Steps heavy and knees shaky, he suddenly doesn’t want to move anymore; too exhausted to open the door and fall to the safe reserve of the living room couch. He’s deteriorating; grip sliding off the doorknob and body falling limp on the house patio. Ryutaro buries his head into his arms and ignores the whine of the plant that his mother so carefully brought up. “Hey watch it, you’re lying on my leaf!” The doorknob glares and tells him to be quiet.  
  
He’s encased within accidia, soulless eyes affixed to the wooden surface of the patio, and he doesn’t move. The birds glanced over in worriment, and the cloud above his head thunders. People walking by cast him strange looks but he’s too tired to care; the frightening thought of needing a smoke enters his mind and he shakes it off. The wind sighs in his ears, arms wrapping him up in an embrace.  
  
It isn’t until Shintaro opens the door and drags him back in that he gets to rest. His muscles ache and wound hurts, barbell weights on the lids of his eyes. He lets out a sigh as his body collapses onto the bed, “I need to sleep.” And for once, the wall is silent and relenting as it stays quiets and lets him pour his heart out onto the crevices of his pillow. He closes his eyes and lets himself relax, there’s always tomorrow.  
  


***

  
It hit him harder than ever and Ryutaro wishes that time-travelling was even slightly possible. But it isn’t so he only breathes it all in and amidst the fact that everything is in aflunters, he moves on. Bit by bit, step by step.  
  
  
He doesn’t come out of his room for the next two days, there’s too much thinking to do and too little time in the world to spare. He needs just about every second he can get. So there he stays, reclined in his chair as he pieces everything together; clears his head and reformats the disk in his brain. And when all errors are fixed and disks are wiped, he stores it in one bit at a time. He poked at the power button on the side of his head; this was a new beginning, and all he has to do is to slowly process it.  
  
“Change”, he tells himself.  
“Change”, he tells the wall.  
“Change, change, change.” The boy mutters under his breath.  
  
The wall eyes him cautiously, “Do it.”  
  
The walls of his room turn painfully bare as he dumps the posters into the trash, years and years of unneeded collections filling up the small bin. The latest one goes too and the walls are white, bare, empty, and just white. The discoloured spots from excessive taping and light exposure being the only spectrum in colour. The keyboard that he no longer uses went to Shintaro, and the CDs and albums are stuffed to the display shelf. Dust is cleaned and clothes are folded, everything ‘s new again and Ryutaro doesn’t feel as broken. Paper thin cuts closing up as haemophilic cells disappear.  
  
Ryutaro’s healing. He feels it, as the clouds fade away and the sky clears. The ache in his heart stopped being constant and only visited him when he plugs his iPod into the speakers and blasted some Johnny’s Ultra Music Power, spinning around with his makeshift microphone. The wind tells him it’s silly sometimes but he doesn’t exactly mind when he manages to somehow belt out Chinen’s ridiculously high adlib.  
  
“You’re being ridiculous.” The wall states, but there’s no irritation in the sentence, just a light-hearted tone of laughter.  
  
Ryutaro beams, putting down the bottle of melon soda, he picked up his phone. He clicks on the mail icon and scrolls through the contacts until he finds Yamada’s name.  
  
“I think I’m over it.”  
  
His fingers hover above the send button but stops to go back and add a word to the message.  
  
“Over.”


	3. iii.

Books help—a lot. So he decidedly stocks up on them, rushes over to the nearby library and whips out the library card he’s never used. There’s mystery and romance, suspense and science textbooks. Books with brand-name authors and hardcover spines decorated the huge shelves of the building. But Ryutaro settles for novels written by the nameless authors, piles of them atop the table near the back of the room. It’s a sanctuary, absolutely hidden from view and Ryutaro doesn’t ask for more. Head buried in books, and soft tunes humming from his mouth: he reads.  
  
He learns, epiphany to the greatest power as he reads of distraught heroes and twisted villains. People who’ve gone through much worse than he did. People who deserved much worse than he got. He’s getting better, heart a little bit stronger, and mind a little bit smarter. Obscure facts make their way into the little cracks and crevices of his cerebral cortex and he smiles. Heart regenerating and his spirits brighten, like sunshine after the storm. The spark in his eyes reignite and life goes on. Cuts healing, and birds flying.  
  
Faded sunlight lightened the room, and he takes a second to look at the cascade of particles in the air, slowly drifting downwards the ray of light. He stopped to pick out a book from the shelf. There were barely any people here, be it a school day morning after all. The clock greeted him as he carried his new companions to the back of the room. He beamed back, waving his new possessions in pride. Another hour to waste away, golden ambrosia in hand. The clock ticked away to his tune, a metronome to his humming.  
  
He’s lost between birds living on rooftops, whispering fires, and moving trees before he realizes that the clock is trying to get his attention.  
  
“It’s been two hours.”  
  
“I know, but I don’t want to leave yet.” He sighs.  
  
“The librarian’s staring at you.”  
  
“He doesn’t like me.” The sigh turns another exhale of air.  
  
“You ripped the book apart last time.”  
  
“The main character was murdered!” Ryutaro retorted.  
  
The last sentence being a bit too loud as the man across the room glared at him with dagger like eyes and mouthed words that weren’t literary and sophisticated at all. He chokes and quiets down, sitting back upright in his chair. “But if I’m gone, won’t you miss me?” He whispered. The clock ticked back, “You could always visit once in a while.” Ryutaro frowned, eyes affixed to the table. Another tick, and the clock sighed, “You have more in your life than to be welled up here reading books all day.”  
  
Ryutaro doesn’t really get it, but he leaves anyways. The librarian smiles like he’s never been happier.  
  
He’s hopping down the steps, and his books are gone. Thud, thud, goes the bottoms of his sneakers as it hits the concrete, scuffed soles dragging along the black asphalt. “Bookstore.” He thinks.  
  
The nearest bookstore was a raggedy shop exactly six blocks from the library, which meant it was nine blocks from his house. Not exactly close, but it was of walking distance. There was more to life than reading all the time, but Ryutaro likes books better. The feeling only deepens as he browses around the store. Wooden bookshelves that lined the store stood three times taller than him, the scent of freshly printed books overpowering his soul. It’s a labyrinth of perfectly unopened spines and varnished pine shelves. He follows the signs, searching his way to the right key. “Sakamoto. Sakamoto. Sakamoto.”  
  
There’s a glint in his eyes as he lays his eyes on the book, the same one as the book he was reading a good 20 minutes ago. Except that this is fresh and new, the other used and contaminated. A mixture of golden pages and worn out book spines. This place was surely a safe haven for a while. At least until the old man was back and he can return to the shop again. There’s a clenching grip fleeting over his heart and Ryutaro thinks he misses the lamp, the shelf, the old grandfather lamp and just utterly everything in that dingy little store.  
  
Life was lonely and he suddenly doesn’t want Yamada to be so busy all the time; schedule flocked full of concert rehearsals and drama filming. He sighed and picked up a book on proverbs before laying his eyes on another novel right next to it. Ryutaro opts for the latter; a thick book of a travelling hero who searches and searches for a blue star. His wallet thins and he leaves the store, armed with books and imagination. The plastic handle of the bag cut into his hand as he walks, worn out sneakers on the hard concrete sidewalk. Birds whistling in the background, the wind begin to sing.  
  


***

  
  
The shelf once full of albums and singles were now jam-packed with books, books, and maybe just a bit more books. Books of all sizes, and genres lying amidst each other as he lied down on his bed, flipping nonchalantly through the same book he’s been staring at for the past four days. The corners of his lips melt down to a slight frown as he re-reads the last sentence. “And he smiles, soul flying to the blue star above.” He’s confused; puzzled as to if the hero has actually reached his star at all. Was he, perhaps, dead? If not, then why was his soul flying above. The wall tells him to stop dwelling on it but he doesn’t, reading the sentence aloud again. Eyebrows knitting together, creases formed on his forehead. The curtains fluttered, “Stop that, you look silly.” He doesn’t, “I’m thinking.” The curtains sighed, “He migrated.”  
  
Ryutaro cocked his head. “Huh?”  
  
“His soul went to the sky, and he migrated.”  
  
“Migrated?” He asked slowly, thoughts processing and gears turning.  
  
“Yeah, so he’s living on the blue star now.”  
  
Ryutaro beamed, “I’m migrating there too.” A million dollar smile bedazzled on his face.  
  
He closes the book and places it back on his desk, bandaged heart now recovering from cuts and there’s almost nothing left but faded scars. He whistles and picks up his phone, messaging Yamada a casual message of “I finished my book.” He glances over to his almost empty piggy bank and purses his lips as he types. “That and I need a temporary job.” Clicking the send button, he stuffs the phone into his jeans before walking out the door. He’s on a job hunt today. The stairs creaked a small whisper of “good luck” as he walked downstairs. Ryutaro smiled, eyes twinkling.


	4. iv.

He doesn’t exactly move on, but he doesn’t exactly dwell on it either. He’s not breaking anymore, save for the occasional emptiness where his heart used to be. But if one thing was certain, it was that he no longer finds it as heartbreaking as it used to be. It’s slowly become something of the past, something he ignores and shoves into the back of his closet. There’s no trace of anything remotely related to his status of a former-Johnnies and he keeps it that way.  
  
Shintaro doesn’t see it the same way though. Ryutaro sees the glances he casts at him, his room, and possibly everything that might trigger another breakdown. It’s as if he believes that Ryutaro was still small, and vulnerable. As if Shintaro has grown up while Ryutaro never did, looking after the eldest in the family like a child. He ignores the glances, ignores the whispers of “Are you really okay?” and mutters of “I’m sorry.” Because he really doesn’t know how to respond, the only thought running through his head being: “Fuck, it’s not supposed to be like this.”  
  
The lamp flickered.  
The refrigerator hummed.  
The wind blew.  
Shintaro frowned.  
Ryutaro winced.  
  
“Well, fuck.” And the thought lingers as he forces a smile and returns to surfing through the television channels. Shintaro’s frown deepens.

  
***

  
The sun rises and sets, acronycal walks home from the temporary job at the convenience store to home allowing him to think. The sun dims and floods the road in faded sepia, the flowers are blooming and he chuckles. Phone in hand while he texts Yamada another nonsensical message of “Neptune is too far for me to migrate to.” A moment later before the other replies, Yamada talks about puppies. Ryutaro wants to frown at the sudden jolt in topic, especially since it was regarding such an important one too, but he doesn’t because it’s all written in such an adoxographical way that he smiles instead. Lips maintaining that slight upward curve, he begins his reply; fingers moving nimbly above the sleek phone. “Puppies are nice, but I can’t bring one to Neptune.” He clicks send and waits.  
  
A moment passes before his phone rings and it’s a call instead of a message. He flips open the phone and hums in a questioning tone instead of greeting the other. Yamada speaks, voice all smooth and questioning, almost distracting to the point where Ryutaro has to make an effort to listen to the words that Yamada’s saying and not the tone he’s speaking in.  
  
“But why Neptune? You can’t grow strawberries there.”  
  
“It’s blue.” Ryutaro pauses to think of another reason, “and it has clouds.”  
  
“Like the summer sky?”  
  
“Prettier than that.”  
  
There’s a hushed, “oh” on the other side of the tone before Yamada speaks again. “But I can’t go there with you.”  
  
Ryutaro stops walking, forehead creasing as he thinks, trying to recall the order of the planets. It takes a while until he speaks again:  
  
“Mercury then, it’s the closest one.”  
  
Yamada laughs, and tells him “Okay.”  
  
Ryutaro laughs too before telling Yamada goodbye. He’s reached his front porch and stops in front of the door, fumbling in his bag for his keys. “Change of plans.” He starts to the doorknob as he continues to search. “I’m migrating to Mercury.” He finishes the thought as he pulls out his keys. The doorknob looked at him puzzlingly, “Is it closer?” He nods as he opens the door, “The closest one by far.” The refrigerator welcomes him back and he hums a reply.  
  
Shintaro casts him a worried look but he dismisses it and goes to wash up before dinner starts. There’s fried shrimp today. He wonders if there is fried shrimp on Mercury. Probably not, he frowns, maybe he should ask Morimoto mama to pack him a bento. He shakes off the thought and rushes back downstairs, just in time before dinner started. The table was all set, and the food placed upon it was more than extravagant today. Was it some special occasion? But seeing the nonchalant behaviour of everyone else, he shrugged it off. There’s was probably a sale in the market, he reasoned, that’s all.  
  
Dinner was lax, and surprisingly calm as the birds chirped in the background. There was a word for this, uitbuiken, was it? He remembered reading it in one of the many books on his shelf but Ryutaro isn’t so sure. He looked outside the window to the bird, cocking his head in question. “Uitbuiken?” It chirped in assurance before flying off to the telephone pole. Birds these days were quite smart, he thought. The window reckoned that it was only because humans were too dumb these days. Ryutaro scowled and muttered unintelligible insults about windows underneath his breath. Shintaro casts him another worried look, but Ryutaro only places a shrimp in his bowl. “Shintaro, be careful of windows. Their stupidity is contagious.” He advised.  
  
The sun set and night fell, stars hidden behind the smog of city pollution. Ryutaro reclines back into his bed and digs his body deep within the bed, buried within the thick blanket. A yawn escapes him and he closes his eyes. The clock strikes twelve and Ryutaro wishes that Yamada won’t bring Chinen to Mercury with him.  
  
Or Yuma.  
Or Daiki.  
Just maybe the puppy and the strawberries.  
  
Night falls and the wind blows through the open window, “Sleep well, my child.”  
  
Ryutaro dreams that night, of flower filled meadows and love-filled bentos. There’s him and there’s Yamada. But above all there’s the summer sky, a beautiful azure blue with clouds that’s so soft and comforting. The wind sings in the background and Yamada laughs. It’s only the two of them forever and Ryutaro no longer wants to wake up.  
  
No Chinen Yuri, no Morimoto Shintaro.  
Simply Yamada Ryosuke and Morimoto Ryutaro.  
He doesn’t quite get it but it doesn’t matter as he wraps his arms around dream-Ryosuke and watches as lips collided and fingers intertwine.


	5. v.

He finds a job, surprisingly, one at a nearby convenience store. It’s decent paying, close to home, and probably the best he can find at the moment. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. But there’s just the numerous quirks of being a cashier that has yet to be ingrained in his mind. Smile, greet, scan, bag, thank and smile again. His cheeks hurt from smiling, stiff and rigid from all the unnecessary attention he has to give customers. If he had to choose, he would have stopped all this smiling business but there was the manager and his overwhelming presence, complete with dark auras and gloomy clouds. Ryutaro hisses and his co-worker turned to give him an understanding smile.  
  
Smiles; he’s sick of them.  
  
The manager doesn’t leave him alone until the second day, when he’s absolutely sure that Ryutaro isn’t an armed terrorist hidden underneath the mask of a teenager that’s ready to rob his store and flip out on the customers. The boy next to him, Suzuki was his name, only laughs and tells him that it’s going to be alright. There’s stardust in his eyes, honeysuckle sweetness in his voice and for a moment, Ryutaro believes that it’s going to be alright.  
  
And for that day, everything kind of does.  
  
Amidst softer smiles, and subtle chatter with Suzuki, the day passes quietly, peacefully, nicely for a change. Nothing dynamic or even impacting, just peaceful in a my-paced type of way. He figured he liked it better that way. Less worries, less stress and just ultimately more living.  
  
The stares are less frequent and the blatant pointing drops low. Besides the occasional whisper of gossip, Ryutaro was just the same as everyone else out there. Just another cashier at your neighbourhood convenience store; unimportant. Well, that was until it was rush hour and everyone’s either buying breakfast or lunch for later. Then was when Ryutaro seemingly turned to the most important guy in the world. It was a game of speed barcode seeking and plastic bagging, customer after costumer, hour after hour.  
  
Truthfully, he doesn’t really like it. A tad bit too hectic and slightly bit too fast for his comfort. People come in by the hoards, nothing like the calm antique shop, where a customer came by once every other day. It’s nothing like it at all. He misses that dingy shop of a second home. That time-warp of a sanctuary.  
  
By the time lunch break settled in, he was tired in all the ways that a person could be. Mentally exhausted of fake smiles and forced “thank yous”. He pinches at the mush of the onigiri he had; crushed from this morning’s mishap. Ryutaro huffs, and puffs, and tosses it into the trash bin next to the picnic table. There’s no house to blow down, no potential sugar to borrow, and no possible pigs or managers worth killing. He blows a gust of air at the invisible hay stack. There’s only a week left and he isn’t even sure if he can keep up this job. He plucks a flower from the field and plops it onto the table.  
  
There’s a thud on his left and he finds Suzuki—the only one he’s actually taken joy in talking to—sitting down next to him, nudging a half of a more than appetizing sandwich. There’s pride but there’s hunger; he gives in to hunger. Pride can fall off a precipice for now—he’ll simply bandage it up later. He accepts the sandwich and thanks Suzuki for his kindness in the form of awkward smiles and incoherent words. The other man smiles.  
  
“Hey, Ryutaro, you’re leaving after a week, right?” Ryutaro titled his head to Suzuki, a nod and an affirmative hum as he chews. Suzuki continued; “Why?” Ryutaro swallowed. “I’m getting my old job at the antique shop back.” He picks at the tomato between the sliced bread. “That and I’m moving to Mercury soon.” There’s a snort from bystanders at the seemingly hilarious statement and Ryutaro only glares. Rude.  
  
Suzuki either doesn’t care about the intrusion or is just completely oblivious with really bad hearing. Crumpled napkin in hand, Ryutaro looks over to the brunette. Suzuki smiles, a faint twinkling of stars. “You know, I’ve been to Jupiter once.” Ryutaro’s ears perked up.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah, for a vacation.”  
  
“How was it?”  
  
Suzuki paused, “Beautiful albeit sandy.”  
  
Ryutaro scrunched his nose. “Why’d you come back?” He asked.  
  
There’s an amused smile on the other’s face as he replies with an equally amused sounding voice, “I missed earth.” A pause. “It’s only so long before homesickness kicks in.”  
  
“Oh.” Ryutaro muttered.  
  
Suzuki smiled softly and placed his hand on Ryutaro’s shoulder. “But it’s a nice place to visit with a friend.” There’s magic in his eyes, song in his voice. Ryutaro thinks he takes a liking to Suzuki. Suzuki and his fantasy-esque aura, cloud like smiles and soothe deep voice. The wind blew as Suzuki announced that lunch break was almost over; conciliatory breeze in the air. He followed the other man back into the store; a soft hum of song escaping his lips.  
  
He thinks this is the start of a friendship.  
A beautiful one, if he must say.  
  


***

  
Suzuki possibly makes what Ryutaro thinks are the most delicious sandwiches in the whole self-imploding universe. So it doesn’t really come as a surprise when he coerces the other into making his share as well. Morimoto mama wasn’t the slightest bit pleased, but Ryutaro doesn’t care. Yamada simply laughs and tells him over the phone. “You’re way too spoiled.” He frowns, “But you spoil Chinen way more than that.” He thinks. Ryutaro glanced over to Suzuki; the other absentmindedly singing to himself. There’s a line about pigeons crashing into tree branches and Ryutaro almost laughs—almost, but he keeps it in.  
  
He thrusts the phone into his companion’s face. “Suzuki, tell him I’m not spoiled.” There’s an exchange of greetings and Yamada mutters something incoherent to Ryutaro’s ears through the phone. Suzuki laughs in reply, loud and clear like cerulean blue skies and cotton clouds. “It’s okay, I don’t mind spoiling him.” A pout, and Suzuki laughs again. “He wants me to tell you he’s not spoiled.” A nudge this time. “Okay, he’s absolutely not spoiled. He’s simply well-loved.” Suzuki cracks a smile and Ryutaro smiles back. “Well-loved.” That was better put.  
  
Suzuki’s half a year older than Yamada and it drops to Ryosuke and Shou. There’s a faint chatter of bystanders and Ryutaro thinks Suzki sounds better than Shou, Yamada flows better than Ryosuke. He sticks out his tongue, making a face that was originally reserved for Takaki and his hissy fits of Kamenashi-esque flamboyancy when his hair wasn’t behaving the way he wanted it to be. The face was responded to with an almost Kodak moment expression, but his phone wasn’t in his hands for picture taking. Ryutaro went back to counting flowers. A long minute passes until Suzuki gives him back his phone; Yamada apparently had to go back to filming.  
  
“But I didn’t even say goodbye!”  
  
“I did though.” There’s a hint of cheekiness and Ryutaro threw the flower he picked at his face.  
  
“I’m tired, give me a piggyback ride.” He scowls, hoping his weight could torture Suzuki.  
  
Suzuki grinned, “Hop on.”  
  
The sun beat down on this fine spring day, clouds dancing in the sky. Fresh nitrogen waft in the air as birds sang hymns of long ago. The wind pranced around the leaves of the great oak trees as petals fell off flowers and butterflies crawled out of their chrysalises. T’was nothing but a spring day, the season of rebirth. Buds bloomed and roots sprouted; leaves blossomed and flowers transpired. Ryutaro whispered in the nook of Suzuki’s neck; his face buried within the soft strands of blueberry scented hair. “He’s the one I’m bringing to Mercury.”  
  
“Ryosuke-kun?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“He seems like a nice person.”  
  
“He is.”  
  
“You two would be cute together.”  
  
There’s a hint of a smile in Suzuki’s words and Ryutaro only buries himself deeper into the other’s hair, inhaling more of the other’s fragrance. He mutters something and Suzuki’s smile grows bigger.


	6. vi.

Minutes spun into hours, hours melted into days and just like that, the week was gone. Faded away into memories that won’t ever turn back. The old man was back with more souvenirs to spare than ever. That and Ryutaro finally gets his job back. He ran against the wind, air pressure on his lungs and pain in his side but he runs. All the way to the dingy little shop of a recluse he goes. He lets out a gasp as his hands pushed upon those heavy wooden doors with hinges that desperately needed oiling. Familiarity rushed in and he’s welcomed with a more than friendly sight.  
  
  
“You’re back!.” The lamp flickered in his face.  
  
  
“Yup.” He beamed, running over to hug the shelf in the corner of the room, then proceeding to run around whatever space possible. He took a deep breath, fragrance of home everywhere as he ran back to the centre of the room. “I’m back.” He stated again, eyes twinkling and heart beating. Home was wherever the heart belonged. The store owner only laughed before heading back upstairs and leaving the store to his hands. A click of the door shutting and Ryutaro went back to the counter. “Guys.” He whispered. “Guess what?”  
  
  
“What.” said the wall nonchalantly.  
“What?” asked the shelf curiously.  
  
  
“I’m bringing Yamada on a trip with me.” He said, eyes lighting up and spirits brightening. Wisp smile on his lips, as his heart skipped a beat.  
  
  
Dust settled comfortably in the cracks of the wooden floor and warm beams of sunlight illuminated the store in a lazy golden hue. The shelf looked at him curiously, “When are you guys going?” He paused, subtle lump stuck in his throat until he scrambles out a low. “I don’t know yet.” And that was the truth, because Yamada was forever busy. Schedule stocked full of new drama filming, NYC and JUMP schedules, solo albums and commercial filming. There’s slight silence hovering over them and it didn’t cease until the fan spun overhead, “Call him!” It ushered. The lamp dimmed in agreement, “Yeah, call him and ask for his next free day!”  
  
  
He pondered upon that option but, how was he going to ask?  _Um, Yamada, would you like to visit Mercury with me?_  No, that sounded too silly.  _Yamada, can you go somewhere with me when you have time?_ The endless phrases stayed in his head and he flipped open his phone, fingers typing well-ingrained numbers. But before he managed to finish the last few digits his phone beat him to it as it rang, vibrations giving off a loud cacophonous clatter as he dropped it on the wooden countertop. Choruses of “Is it him? Is it him?” resounding in his ear as he picked up the phone again.  
  
  
“Hello?” Ryutaro asked as if he didn’t already know who it was.  
  
  
“Ryutaro!”  
  
  
“Oh, Yamada, I was just about to call you.” Faint chatter was heard on the other end of the line.  _“Chinen”_  he thought, voice somehow distinct among the others in the background. Fragments of giggles and mirth filled whispers making their way to his eardrum. The bottomless pit in his stomach deepened but Ryutaro continued, rambling even as words stuck together and repeated themselves over.  
  
  
 I-I was w-w-wondering if youcouldgosomewherewith—”  
  
  
A click.  
  
  
A tone.  
  
  
And suddenly it was just ringing acouasm in his ear. No Yamada anywhere anymore. There’s a hollow thud in his chest and the adrenaline in his blood drops low. The phone rings again and he suddenly doesn’t want to pick it up anymore. It’s petty, he decides and he picks it up anyways. Yamada’s voice loud and clear on the phone. “Oh, sorry about that, I was talking with Chinen and he said he wanted to see you at the barbecue this weekend!”  
  
  
“Huh?”  
  
  
That was probably the most intelligent sentence—a question really, but there’s not much of a difference—that Ryutaro could form at the moment. Yamada repeated over the phone, “I said, we’re having a barbeque this weekend and we want you to come this time.” A string of what was possibly alien language escaped his mouth and he half-screamed, half-spoke. “But everyone is going to be there!” Another sigh, “That’s the point, Ryuu. It’s a reunion.” Ryutaro choked, “But you just said it was a barbecue!” Yamada must have slapped himself by now but he didn’t and just kept talking on the phone. “Everyone hasn’t seen you in a long time, and it’s rare for the group to have a day off.” His voice all soft and understanding, all dagger like as they pierced through Ryutaro’s heart. They were playing a game of guilt. He took a deep breath and whispered in the phone, “Fine, I’ll be there.”  
  
  
Fuck.  
Add another fuckity-fuck-fuck to that.  
With a shit on top. Ryutaro closed his phone and laid it on the table, staring the device down. Tainted silence hung with tension so thick that one could almost pierce through it. Tick, tock; went the clock.  
  
  
“Are you really going to go?”  
  
  
“Yeah, I mean, I haven’t seen everyone for a long time.” His voice all soft and lullaby-esque.  
  
  
“Weren’t you going to ask him out?”  
  
  
There’s a slight pause before he opens his mouth again, “Yeah, I was.” He whispered. Healed scabs at his heart threatening to peel and just utterly bleed all over again. Memories flooded him and Ryutaro doesn’t speak again.  
  
  
Tick, tock; went the clock.  
  
  
Before long, the sun set and shop closed, his walk back home taking longer than it actually should. But it’s just about all the time he needs to thinks. Thoughts sent through axons and dendrites, impulses and neurotransmitters. He counts with his fingers; it’s been a year and ten months. A year and ten bloody months, everything’s bond to change by now. He’s seen it, changed concepts and approaches. Their outfits aren’t as bright, Hikaru isn’t even blond anymore. Everyone’s grown and matured. And he isn’t sure how to approach this change. Would he still be able to converse like before or has he grown socially-inept.  _Should he try to be the person he was before?_  
  
  
It’s all confusing because by now he’s sure he  _isn’t_  quite the same person back then. Abandoned pastimes and newfound interests in things he was sure the boys weren’t even interested in. Heck, he even dresses differently now, no longer needing to care about styles or fads. He simply throws on the first thing he sees in the closet, be it a clash or not. He wonders vaguely, _should he make an effort on dressing? Should he plan conversation topics?_  
  
  
He isn’t even quite sure and it all comes off as a ridiculous scheme. One that might turn out like the time he pulled off pranks to increase viewer ratings. But he knows quite well that he still owes everyone an apology. Knows that everyone still somewhat blames him for the mess he caused, and the seemingly nonchalant behaviour on the game of avoidance he was playing. The clouds in the sky looked over him, golden in colour as the sun dyed everything in a similar hue. Running his hand through his hair, he chuckled. Just when were they ever going to visit Mercury?  
  
  
Just when would time stop and let there only be Yamada Ryosuke and Morimoto Ryutaro.  
  
  
He really doesn’t fucking know.


	7. vii.

Suzuki peered over his shoulder to where Ryutaro lolled on his sofa, limp arm draped over the leather furnishing, “So you’re meeting up with everyone?” The younger boy nodded, eyes lifeless and tired as Suzuki nudged him over with his leg. He didn’t budge and Suzuki settled to sitting on the floor, cup of warm coffee in hand. “So why are you here?” He asked, obviously too tired to fight over his sofa seat. Which only reminded him, it was his sofa in his house—and was still rightfully his—until Ryutaro stumbled in and claimed it a good ten minutes ago. He contemplated burning the other’s cheek with the porcelain mug but decided against it as he let his hand fall limply on the rug. He was too lethargic for it, drowsiness nipping at his soul, parasites sucking his energy.

  
Ryutaro sighed, an exasperation of long held oxygen before he speaks again—of him, of it, of them—in an all but whispering tone. “I’m scared.” Suzuki only continues to sip at his drink, eyes lost in the labyrinth of the opened veranda. And it’s only after he drinks down the needed caffeinated beverage that he replies, “Because you think they won’t like the person you changed into?” Ryutaro nodded, noir eyes focused on the white ceiling of the house. It was times like these where he absolutely adores Suzuki. The Suzuki who seemed to know exactly what was passing through his mind; knows what worries are tainting his soul, clawing at his heart.

Even when Ryutaro didn’t know what was bothering him, he knew for sure that Suzuki did. Knew that the other could find it and put it all together in a string of words; transcribing his mess of trepidations into a poem, a song, a hymn. There’s magic lingering on his fingertips and meteor showers in his voice. He’s strong, secure and nothing precarious like his own self. So much that Ryutaro simply lets him become a pillar. One that was lined to the brim with acquiescence; so languid and soft like freshly fallen snow that it envelops him completely. He’s grown so comfortable that he refuses to move, time slowing to that last drop of honey from the glass bottle. So he only nods again, hand reaching out for Suzuki’s slender hand, fingers interlacing in a web of comfort.

“It’s okay, you know.”

“No, it isn’t.” He rebutted.

>“But you’re still Ryutaro.”

“But—”

“You may like different things, dress differently, speak differently, but you still Ryutaro.”

“But I’m like another person.”

Suzuki shifted his gaze from the backyard garden to Ryutaro’s face, so pallid and incredulous.

“Who are you?”

“I’m...” and it hits him a second too late, a moment too soon. “Ryutaro. Morimoto Ryutaro.”

And Suzuki turned his eyes back to the gingko tree in his backyard. His cup still hot (but no longer burning) as Ryutaro’s hand laid soft and supple in his own. Hammerhead sharks gnawed at his heart and he’s forcing it back down, blood trickling down his soul. He’s catching butterflies in his stomach, pinning them to his walls as Ryutaro only comes closer. His mind is yelling, screaming,  _you’re an idiot, a fucking self torturing machine._

“Hey, Suzuki.”

“Hmm?”

“Come with me to the reunion.”

Acrasia explodes his mind—he nods—chokes down the screams and burns it with his coffee. He thinks he hears his heart shatter. But Ryutaro only smiles, bright and bedazzling as he always was. Hand in hand they stayed and Suzuki pretends that the one running through the other’s mind wasn’t Yamada Ryosuke. Pretends that the only thought in his head isn’t “ _Why him? Why not me?”_

***

  
Ryutaro thinks he has a tendency for not noticing things that are absolutely important to him. Because by the time he notices such things, they’ve already gone past the point of no return; overflowed and quite irreversible. It happens once, happens twice and it happens again when he finds himself lost in the worries of everything that is Yamada Ryosuke. His heart palpitates and heat finds its way in his veins; crimson staining his cheeks.

Yamada Ryosuke was air, was rain, was everything. And with every ring of an incoming text, the heavens sang. By the time Ryutaro realizes the blatant throbbing reason, he’s filled to the brim with lavender scented rainfall and crystal butterflies settle safely in his stomach. He’s all fumbles and smiles invade his soul, sonorous voice reverberating throughout his mind. There’s a river flowing through his blood vessels and a part of him comes back to life.

Shintaro sees the change, and the constant glances stop. The frowns soften into smiles, eyes twinkling because Ryutaro was back. Recovered, whole, and complete again. Ryutaro grins and places another shrimp in Shintaro’s bowl, “You don’t have to worry about me anymore, you know?” And this time Shintaro only nods, with all the innocence and playfulness that Ryutaro hasn’t seen in just about an eternity. Everything was back to normal; the sun rises and sets, wind travelling through the sky like dancers on a stage; magnificent and grand.

***

  
The clock struck eight as Ryutaro reached into the fridge, hand wandering for his incessant supply of melon soda. The refrigerator hummed in disapproval to the cupboard, “I don’t get it. How can he not be sick of them by now?” and he only laughs, halfway back to the sofa before he lets out an “I don’t get it either”. A sharp hiss resounded through the living room as he opened the seal on his beverage, his other hand absentmindedly searching for the remote. The television opened with a buzz and the birds outside the veranda chirped in loud unison. He smiles.

He surfs through the channels—the same one where he used to be on clad in ridiculous costumes singing in horrid English—and he stops on an episode of JUMP’s new show. There’s a vague feeling stirring in his chest and but Ryutaro simply wills it away; too engaged into whatever Yamada was doing on screen. Well, whatever he was doing with Chinen on the screen. It’s only so long before he shuts off the screen, too tired of whatever they were doing. Chinen invading the crevice of his mind and it bothers him a bit too much. He heads back upstairs, the taste of melon soda still on his lips. High fructose corn syrup and carbonated sweetness lingering on his tongue.

It’s childish, he thinks, because Chinen has been near Yamada since an eternity before and it’s all supposedly normal. Because Chinen had always been tailing after, filling in that empty space by Yamada’s side. And it has been that way until Chinen meant Yamada and Yamada meant Chinen. Except it shouldn’t and Ryutaro can’t help but feel envy growing in his heart. Vile roots latching onto the soft soil, venomous buds sprouting into full-fledged flowers, pollen spiked with poison. It’s oh-so-childish and certainly nonsensical when he pulls out his iPod from his speakers because all he hears in the chorus of Johnny’s Ultra Music Power is nothing but Chinen Yuri. Chinen Yuri who haunts his soul, taints his heart, and grows him potted plants of jealousy.

And that night when he fell asleep on lavender scented pillows, covered in the midst of snow-like blankets he dreams. Vile nightmares that make his stomach churn, heart throb, and the haemophilic platelets reappear all together. Because amidst that field of Mercury’s surreal existence and azure blue sky, it isn’t Yamada Ryosuke and Morimoto Ryutaro. Hands—that weren’t his—linking together with the older boy. And it hits him—pains him—because he gets it, understands as he watches dream-Ryosuke lean over to dream-Chinen. Their lips colliding and fingers intertwining.

The wind blew through the opened window, curtains aflutter, as it wraps around Ryutaro in an embrace, beckoning in his ear. “Wake up, my child.”

And he does, startled awake upon some ungodly hour of the day, chest tight and adrenaline high. It’s all bound too tight, too tight, and he has to remind himself to breathe. Oxygen flooding his lungs. His hand wraps around his phone and he flips it open to dial in more-than-familiar digits.

One try.

Two tries.

 

Yamada Ryosuke’s soft lullaby-esque voice nowhere near his eardrums, Chinen’s song voice still resounding through his mind. He calls and calls again; and he’s about to try again until it finally rings.

Except the voice that hits his ears doesn’t belong to Yamada Ryosuke, and he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want it at all as he just whispers a fragment of “But you aren’t Yamada” through the phone.

Suzuki thinks he wants to disappear.

Simply fall into a crevice of nothing and everything. The ebony depths of sorrow seeped into his bones, and he wishes he never— _ever_ —made the call.


	8. viii.

He isn’t Yamada, and he isn’t air, isn’t rain, isn’t everything. But Suzuki is still  _something_. So he only keeps quiet and watches stars implode and crystal hearts shatter as Ryutaro breathes through the phone. He doesn’t know how long he holds on, grasping onto the mobile phone until the cold plastic turns warm and burns his skin—his bones, his heart. The silence solidifies and Ryutaro is still breathing—gasping—for the air that he so desperately needs. Suzuki listens and simply waits until uneven exasperations find a rhythm of their own before speaking.  
  
“Ryutaro?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah.” The lie hung in the air, so blatantly black and white, a raven among doves.  
  
And that night Suzuki stays on the phone, drowning himself in silence and eternal pauses until Ryutaro falls asleep on the other side. Phone slipping into the hidden crevices of his blanket and the wind wraps around him once more. Dreams blend into nightmares and he’s hopelessly fallen into the world of Yamada Ryosuke.  
  
Morimoto Ryutaro was helplessly in love.  
  
Minutes drifted into hours. Hours weaved into days and the closer the weekend came, the higher the adrenaline levels became. Anxiety at its peak and Ryutaro suddenly regretted the spontaneous decision he gave to such an important matter. He let his head fall onto the table, a dull thud resounding as a result. Trepidation so strong that he can almost feel it in his bones.  
  
Sunday was five minutes away and he almost rips the battery from his clock just so he can see time stop ( _freeze_ ) and just hold still so tomorrow doesn’t ever come— _almost_. Except he doesn’t, because it’s stupid, moronic, and useless. Tomorrow came anyways, everything hitting the number twelve like an atomic bomb about to detonate; timer counting down to 00:00:00. He wants time to go back.  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
Sunday dawned on him with the force of flowing rivers and shooting stars. Ryutaro’s never been crushed as hard as this before.  
  
It’s everything or nothing.  
  
The second hand ticked away mercilessly as the sun rose, light blinding his eyes as it pierced through glass windows. Ryutaro frowns, thoughts lost between: he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want this,  _he has to do this_ , he doesn’t want this. And he sighs—for possibly the umpteenth time since Sunday hit—throwing another set of clothes onto his bed. Not this shirt, not that one either, that one looks utterly lame. “You’re clashing”, yelled the wall, voice dripping with hidden vulgarities. “I know”, Ryutaro uttered , “I know”.  
  
And while clothes lied lazily atop each other, Ryutaro’s frown deepened, calling Shintaro even though the other had barely woken. Shintaro groaned, lugging himself into his brother’s room, voice groggily hanging in the air.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Help me.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“I don’t know what to wear.”  
  
Shintaro rolled his eyes, walking over to pick through various layers of shirts, jackets, hoodies, and jeans before throwing a few to Ryutaro. “Here, wear these.” Ryutaro smiled, “Thanks.” He said before beckoning Shintaro out of the room. He picked up his phone to call Suzuki; he’d be there in half an hour.  
  
Except Suzuki doesn’t listen and only whispers a sentence of “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” His voice as weary as his appearance while kholl-like stardust adorned his eyes. His smile isn’t warm at all and Ryutaro wants to cry all over again, hands reaching out for Suzuki’s. The other was so broken, so fragile, so  _empty_ ; and yet still as understanding and forgiving as he always was. The only sentence Ryutaro manages out was “I’m sorry.”  
  
He really is.  
  
There’s poison running through Suzuki’s veins but his smile doesn’t falter—doesn’t  _break_ —when he tells Ryutaro that everything’s okay and nothing would go wrong. He stays strong even when his heart shatters into dust like the empty stars in the skies. Ryutaro feels the deepening pit forming in his stomach. The air, precarious and simply spiked with stark tension; he suddenly doesn’t want to go anymore, whether Yamada was there or not.  
  
Suzuki lets whatever left in his chest cavity disappear; dissolve into the midst of nothing as he holds on to Ryutaro’s hands.  
  
“It’s going to be okay, alright?”  
  
“No, it isn’t. Not like this.” Ryutaro doesn’t believe it.  
  
And all Suzuki can do is tug on the other’s hand, voice whispering words he doesn’t want to say. “Let’s go.” And with broken hearts and interlaced hands, Morimoto Ryutaro and Suzuki Shou walked down the road of nowhere to meet Yamada Ryosuke. Suzuki’s grip tightens on Ryutaro’s hand. The heart wants what the heart wants; the mind knows what the heart can’t have. The wind embraces him and holds him together; broken marionette doll underneath the sky.  
  
Ryutaro hates his heart.

***

  
It seems as if all stopped when Ryutaro arrived, everyone too surprised, too shocked at the mere existence of Morimoto Ryutaro. Looks of  _Why are you here?_  all over their faces and Ryutaro can only look to Yamada in question. Chinen answers for him instead.  
  
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“But we’re all  _really_  glad to see you.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Chinen is still as bedazzling as ever and Ryutaro’s grip on the hem of Suzuki’s shirt tightens. Hikaru wasn’t blonde anymore, Yabu wasn’t light brown either, Keito’s hair no longer kohl black, black, black. Every strand of noir damaged and killed by brown hair dye. Time has been unrelenting and the matured age in Inoo’s gaze doesn’t escape his vision. It’s as if he’s five again, hiding behind his mother’s skirt as people too tall, too mature, too  _unlike him_  surrounded him, warm gazes turning hostile in his eyes.  
  
His breath lodged in between his chest and he can’t breathe, suffocating within a pool of worries. Water travelled in his lungs as pain hits his chest, oxygen too far away for him to reach. Nothing was comfortable and he wants to leave. Suzuki doesn’t let him, grasping onto his arm and pushing towards his ex-bandmates, his friends, his  _insecurity._  
  
Keito smiled, greeting Ryutaro amidst grilling meat and guarding the food so that Yamada didn’t steal anything. Daiki makes bad jokes, lame puns that don’t make sense and familiarity slowly seeps into Ryutaro’s bones. Comfort finds its way into his shoulders and his smiles relax; more vibrant, more  _real_.  
  
He can breathe again.  
  
“Hi, Guys.”  
  
Yamada smiles and leads him to the table, drowning him is smiles and laughter. Euphoria that was overwhelming and his heart doesn’t stop beating. The sun was shining through cumulous clouds, light penetrating the earth below as flowers bloomed and wind blew. The gears click a little more into place. Everything was just about close to  _right_.  
  
Not yet, though.  
  
But still very close.  
  
And when Yamada goes over to help the others, Suzuki gives him another smile. He smiles back, hands reaching out to the other. Suzuki doesn’t reach back for his hand, but Ryutaro’s smile doesn’t falter. The world doesn’t implode, the sky doesn’t fall. Everything’s still not close enough.  
  
The air brushed against the field, blades of grass dancing along to the hums of the sky. Chinen takes Ryutaro to the back. Suzuki finds Yamada. The gears move a slight bit;  _close_ but not there yet.  
  
“Hey, Ryosuke?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Isn’t the sky pretty today?”  
  
“Yeah, it is.”  
  
Suzuki smiled, hands grasping onto the grass when he tells Yamada.  
  
“I hate you. I really do.”  
  
Yamada only laughs back, “I do too.”  
  
Azure skies above; the birds sang of rivers, lakes, and sonorous serendipities. Chinen tries to push Ryutaro down the hill; he almost does but stops at a shove. A stumbles of steps and Ryutaro looks back at Chinen.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“A shove.” Said Chinen, like it was blatantly obvious—it was—and the right thing to do—it wasn’t.  
  
“I know, but  _why_.”  
  
“Because I’m angry at you.”  
  
“For?”  
  
“Many reasons.”  
  
Guilt fell onto Ryutaro’s fingertips and he whispers a tiny “Oh.” Chinen doesn’t hear—doesn’t care—and only looks at the sky. “I really don’t like you, you know?”  
  
Ryutaro doesn’t answer and Chinen simply responds instead.  
  
“But since Ryosuke likes you, I have to put up with you too.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Chinen doesn’t respond, simply gazing off into the middle of nowhere and Ryutaro tries to process his thoughts.  
  
“ _Oh_.” He mutters again, and he kind of gets it this time around.


	9. ix.

“ _Oh._ ” He mutters again, and he kind of gets it this time around.  
  
Chinen doesn’t bother to explain and only returns to help Takaki and Yuto set up the tables, piling up paper plates, cups, and plastic forks. The sky is lined with clouds overhead, wired cables stringing them together like beads. Ryutaro tries to string together his thoughts; but the string only snaps—crystal beads falling to the ground like scattered stars in the night sky. Chinen only gives him a knowing smile.  
  
He doesn’t return it.  
  
The crystals shatter into sharp shards against the floor.  
Clouds were breaking apart in the evening sky.  
The sun sets; the world drenched in a sepia filter and there were only two thoughts running through his head.  
  
One is that Yamada likes him.  
  
Two is if Yamada  _loved_  him.  
  
Ryutaro wants to know if he was dreaming again, thoughts lost between azure skies and white clouds. He really wants to know, and when he turns to catch Yamada’s smile, Ryutaro really hopes he isn’t. Because if he suddenly awakes from the soft smiles and noir eyes, Ryutaro thinks he might break.  
  
The world isn’t spinning and there are only two thoughts lingering in his chest.  
  
One is that he likes Yamada.  
  
Two is that he  _loves_ Yamada  
  
The sun sank further into the sky: pink, red, purple, orange all throughout the evening landscape and Ryutaro’s thoughts sank as well. He’s drowning in worries and grape flavoured soda. The sky’s no longer azure blue and Suzuki isn’t holding out his hand anymore. In the midst of everyone laughing and talking, Ryutaro’s never felt more alone. He wonders if this was how reunions should feel.  
  
And with shooting stars and falling meteors, they watch the night fall. There’s no more reunion and schedules start up the next day. The wind simply hums, leaves dancing among treetops.  
  


***

  
He shows up at Suzuki’s front door a mere six hours later; it’s five o’clock in the morning and the sun isn’t up yet. Everything is simple a blear of black smog in the atmosphere and airplanes pretending to be stars. There’s no constellations in the city sky, simply street lamps and traffic lights. Ryutaro gives up on trying to find the cowherder and the weaver.  
  
It’s only five o’clock in the morning and Ryutaro shows up at Suzuki’s doorsteps empty handed save for a dandelion he picked from the sidewalk. The seedlings dispersed into the wind; he’s cultivating weeds.  
  
Useless  
little  
weeds.  
  
It’s five fifteen in the morning when Suzuki opens the door. He’s all groggy and tired; hair all tousled in a mess. He’s not even fully awake yet when he tells Ryutaro to come in and that he’ll make coffee. Ryutaro wants to fall—head over heels—in love with Suzuki; because Suzuki never asked, never questioned, never cared for reasons. He was the simple antithesis to Ryutaro’s constant worriment and contemplation.  
  
It’s almost a feeling of deja vu as he makes his way to the leather couch, sprawling across the cushions like it was a bed. The verdana was closed today; no sunshine to peek through the glass, no wind to flutter around. Everything is just black, black,  _blue_ , black and all the world’s deep in slumber—sound asleep except for the whirring of Suzuki’s coffee machine. The light stings his eyes and he reaches over to the lamp; opting for the dim sepia instead of fluorescent white. It’s almost like a Christmas morning, but winter isn’t even here. The buds of autumn yet to fully bloom amidst the terminating summer. Time was horribly out of wack this year.  
  
And like Suzuki knew what he was thinking—which he always did—the other handed him his cup with a short sentence. “It’s not Christmas yet.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“It’s five in the morning.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You don’t own my couch.”  
  
Ryutaro sighed, setting the cup on the coffee table. “I don’t care.”  
  
Suzuki smiled, letting the porcelain cup burn his hands until Ryutaro spoke again. He does so a minute later, spouting nonsensical remarks on how the ceiling looked better in this light. He goes on, commenting on his curtains, table, and floor tiles. It's five thirty in the morning and Suzuki wonders why he isn’t sleepy. Perhaps, his body stopped producing melatonin, he wonders aloud. Ryutaro freezes for a whole two seconds before laughing; Suzuki thinks things are slightly back to normal now.  
  
It’s been a while since Ryutaro’s laughed so freely, face contorted into the way that Johnny’s were forbidden from showing on camera. There was no restraints, and for a second, the burden on Suzuki’s shoulders lifted.  
  
Suzuki smiled, hands tapping against the hot mug. He’s killing nerve cells but he’s stopped caring a long time ago, letting his fingertips burn against the white porcelain. He lifted the mug to his lips; he’s burning more nerves, swallowing coffee that seared his throat. It hurt to the point that it didn’t hurt anymore.  
  
It’s six o’clock in the morning and the sun was just starting to rise, fog still dwindling amongst the earth. All the house’s a quiet save for clinking mugs and ticking clocks. Suzuki finished his coffee while Ryutaro contaminated his couch.  
  
“Hey, Ryutaro.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“You should tell him.”  
  
“What are you even talking about?” Ryutaro muttered, face still affixed to the armrest of the sofa.  
  
Suzuki sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know what I’m talking about.”  
  
Ryutaro muttered again, words muffled against the white leather. “No, I don’t.”  
  
Suzuki didn’t bother to continue, knowing that it would simply blossom into a meaningless argument of “You do” and “I don’t”. Instead, he stood up, making his way to the kitchen for another cup of caffeine, sugar and carcinogenic chemicals. He’s clogging his heart up with toxins, burning it with fire. He tightens his grip on the mug; he’s not holding out his hand to someone that won’t hold on anymore.  
  
“ _Go tell him._ ”  
  


***

  
Suzuki’s doorstep isn’t the only one that morning that Ryutaro waits upon. Hands frozen and face numb, he looks at the wooden door—hoping the door opens,  _doesn’t open_. The wind is soft today too, wrapping around the clouds as they dance in the sky. “ _Go for it_ ”, they say. Ryutaro smiled, tired eyes lighting up with a soft glint.  
  
It opens.


	10. x.

It opens.  
  
Mahogany wood opening to the depths of neverland and Ryutaro found himself face to face with Yamada. The other equally sleepless, rings forming under the lids of his eyes. He feels bad, really, for showing up at such an unsightly time. But then again, Ryutaro figures that the other wouldn’t have rested anyways. The lives of celebrities were tough, stuck in a never ending cycle of work, work, work, and no sleep.  
  
He doesn’t say much, doesn’t have to as he gently tugs on the older male’s sleeve. He’s whispering with his eyes; his hands dropping down to hold Yamada’s fingertips.  
  
He says it. He doesn’t say it.  
 _Let’s go._  
  
It’s probably the first time in a while since he saw Yamada smile, lips upturning and the corners of his eyes crinkling into sand dunes. Valleys. Mountains. Ryutaro holds on tighter, leaning closer to let lips meet lips. All the world’s a stage, and they were in the centre under heaven’s spotlight. He whispered in Yamada’s ear; “One day we’ll disintegrate under the sun, you know.” Yamada simply laughed, hands around Ryutaro’s waist. “Then we’ll just turn into stardust.”  
  
Skies azure and winds translucent, Ryutaro’s oiling gears. One rusted piece at a time.And slowly, the second hand starts to move. A tick and a falter. A tock and a falter.  
  
“We’ll be part of the milky way.”  
  
Ryutaro doesn’t have to make sense with Yamada—doesn’t want to, doesn’t care to. He can sputter out utter nonsense and Yamada will nod as if he wasn’t talking about whispering winds. He won’t shake his head and tell Ryutaro that the world doesn’t work that way. Because, really, even he knows that it doesn’t but it was always nice to pretend.  
  
They’re to board the seven o’clock train, tickets in hand as Yamada scrambles to the nearby store to grab breakfast. Ryutaro settles for coffee from the vending machine, an addiction he picked up from Suzuki. The steam fogs up his glasses, everything turning into water vapour. There’s condensation in his vision and he can only grab onto Yamada’s hand when he comes back, letting himself be dragged towards the train.  
  
They sit side by side, passing mile by mile until Ryutaro grabs Yamada’s hand and pulls him towards the train door. “We’re here.” He whispers—to the sky, to the wind, to the sun; to himself.  
  
It isn’t Mercury but it’s close enough.  
  
The sun was now high up in the sky and the tide occasionally hugged the shore. Lazy clouds lolled carelessly as the wind sang songs and etudes of stars that danced in the sky. His veins are pulsing and butterflies lodged in the bottom of his stomach, Ryutaro feels his breath escape him. There’s no one around and Yamada takes off the celebrity mask that he’s worn for too long. Hand in hand, Ryutaro leans in to the stardust in the other’s eyes. It isn’t Mercury, but it’s close enough.  
  
The gears clicked into placed—wheels spinning and knobs turning—as the world slowly started to spin again. Time began to flow through its sandglass again and Ryutaro listens closely. Heartbeats in synch, Yamada listens as well.  
  
It isn’t Mercury, but it’s just as wonderful.


End file.
